


This Year's Love

by tellywhich



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Glossing over the full emotional ramifications of TFP, How Do I Tag, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-The Final Problem, Romantic Angst, Self-Indulgent, Song Lyrics, Thanks Moftiss, Two Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 12:51:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15461778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellywhich/pseuds/tellywhich
Summary: In which a song becomes indirectly responsible for fixing Moftiss' epic mess.





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by an Experience. I was in a coffee shop reading post-TFP fic I Wish I Was in Heaven Sitting Down by standbygo (which you should go read, it's so good!). At the exact moment I finished the fic, overwhelmed by a swell of emotion, the song “This Year's Love” by David Gray came on over the speakers. It very quietly and gently made my feels 30,000x stronger. After that, I couldn't stop thinking about the song, and voilà, the idea for this fic materialized. 
> 
> Please note: This fic is not directly connected to standbygo's fic, other than through serendipity. I am just rec'ing it because why not. It was part of what made the Experience that sparked off the inspiration for this fic.
> 
> Credit: I used Ariane Devere's The Reichenbach Fall transcript for reference. Mostly because to this day, I have only been able to watch TRF once. It stresses me out too much. So I needed some help jogging my memory.
> 
> This fic was not beta'd, but was proofed extensively.

“Is this your first time visiting London?” the driver asked, flicking on the windscreen wipers. 

“Oh, for God's sake.” Sherlock turned to look out the window. This was the first time they had taken an Uber, and it would be the last. The driver looked to be about thirteen years old, complete with a backwards cap and fall of messy brown hair that covered one eye. Sherlock tried not to focus on how much this would compromise his depth perception (a reduction of 47%). Once he took the rain into account, it would be another 13% loss of effectiveness. He sighed, watching raindrops trickle down the window, and wondered when exactly he had started caring about how other people drove.

“We live here,” John supplied.

“Obviously,” Sherlock added, glaring at the driver via the rear view mirror.

“Right then.” The driver reached over to turn up the radio, swerving slightly. Sherlock shifted in his seat as a new song started, the volume just this side of too loud, slow ambient piano chords enveloping him. Next to him, John's head snapped up, as if he recognized the song.

_This year's love had better last_  
_Heaven knows it's high time  
_ _I've been waiting on my own too long_

Sherlock tensed. He didn't know the song, but the tone was all too familiar. It ached in his chest like the last decade of his life compressed into an agonizing array of sound.

_And when ya hold me like you do_  
_It feels so right, oh now_  
_I start to forget_  
_How my heart gets torn_  
_When that hurt gets thrown_  
_Feelin' like ya can't go on_

The song paused for a long beat, a breath held in. Sherlock looked down at his left hand, realized he had been clutching the door handle for dear life. He forced himself to let go, small bursts of pain blossoming along the lines where the chromed plastic had cut into his fingers from the force of his grip.

_Turnin' circles and time again_  
_Cut like a knife, oh now_  
_If ya love me, got to know for sure_

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John looking over at him.

_Cause it takes something more this time_  
_Than sweet, sweet lies, oh now_  
_Before I open up my arms and fall_  
_Losing all control  
_ _Every dream inside my soul_

The song wormed its way under his skin, relentless, pulsing around him and through him, in his blood, in his heart, his body heavy with it. If only it weren't so _loud_. If only it wasn't drowning out everything but the truth.

_When ya kiss me_  
_On that midnight street_  
_Sweep me off my feet_  
_Singin' ain't this life so sweet_

Sherlock remembered running down a side alley with John, away from Lestrade and Donovan, away from the trap Moriarty was too effectively setting for him. There were railings blocking his way, and he vaulted them before even thinking, forgetting their wrists were handcuffed together. John was left stranded on the other side, nearly dangling from his right arm. He had reached through the bars and dragged Sherlock closer, his breath tickling Sherlock's upper lip as he calmly took command.

_“We're going to need to coordinate.”_

Sherlock hunched against the window, the memory cutting deep. He really hadn't listened, had he?

Of course, John had only been thinking of the railings when he spoke in that moment. But in a broader sense, through his actions, he had been saying the same thing over and over, practically insisting with every night of too little sleep, every inconvenient errand, every dangerous altercation, that he was committed to making it work. Whatever it was that they had, John had been fully committed, and Sherlock had left him behind.

_This year's love had better last_

“Stop the car,” Sherlock said, his voice barely a whisper.

_This year's love had better last_

_'Cause who's to worry_  
_If our hearts get torn_  
_When that hurt gets thrown_  
_Don't ya know this life goes on_

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, hating the power of music, the way it could find a way in like nothing else could, cracking the walls of ice around his heart, the abrupt onslaught of feelings dazzling in their sharpness, drawing blood.

_Won't ya kiss me_  
_On that midnight street_  
_Sweep me off my feet_  
_Singin' ain't this life so sweet_

“Stop the car!” he said, louder, during another silent beat.

_This year's love-_

“This isn't the destination you requested,” the driver yelled back, not bothering to turn down the music.

_This year's love-_

“Sherlock?” John's voice blended in with the piano chords.

_-had better last_

“I said stop the bloody car!” Sherlock shouted. 

_-love had better last_

The driver swerved to the side of the road, braking with excessive force. Sherlock caught himself against the back of the seat, his seatbelt already unbuckled, and tumbled out of the car. 

Drama queen, John had called him once. At his wedding. He was right. Sherlock knew he was being a drama queen, but this was an emergency.

_This year's love had better last_

The driver was shouting, a mosquito whining in Sherlock's ears. John scooted over, leaning forward to talk to him. The song buzzed through Sherlock's body, the emotional weight of it reduced down to one frequency. The vibration of _loss_ that permeated him to the core whenever he and John were together.

Sherlock knew he was as close to breaking as he'd ever been. He hovered by the kerb, raindrops running down strands of his hair, dripping slowly down his neck, splashing into his eyes. He watched John talking to the driver. He looked thoughtful. Sad. Sherlock looked away, reeling his mind back from the conclusion it had already reached. 

John knew. 

John knew, and more importantly, he didn't mind.


	2. John

John had the driver show him how to change the destination on the bloody app, and then the car was off with a screech of tires. He stood a careful distance from Sherlock and took a deep breath, resisting the urge to text Mrs. Hudson a nasty note about her suggestion to try Uber. Free ride or not, he was absolutely sure he would walk before ever requesting a car again.

The David Gray song was still washing through him, and he knew he couldn't meet Sherlock's eyes. Not just yet. He hadn't been able to resist looking over, during the song. He _needed_ to drink in his beauty and brilliance in that moment. He had expected to see a contemptuous sneer twisting Sherlock's lovely mouth. Perhaps his laser-focused “I-will-shame-you-via-embarrassing-deductions-about-your-personal-life” look. Instead, Sherlock looked hurt. Regretful. Heartbroken. 

At first, John had the usual reaction. This was about some other lost connection – Irene Adler, perhaps. But he knew now, after all they'd been through, that it had never been about her, or anyone else. This was about the two of them.

“Well,” he said, meeting Sherlock's eyes. “Are you going to explain why we got out in the middle of Brixton?”

“I'm sorry, John.” Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, his expression full of chagrin.

John knew it was a real apology, not one of the charming ones that was designed to manipulate. The rawness of it made it hard for him to hold Sherlock's gaze. He ran his fingers through his hair, coming away with a mess of melted pomade and rainwater.

“What happened back there?” he asked, even though he already knew. The song had been too much. It had been too loud. It had been dripping with sentimentality. For his part, he was trying to keep acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary, but honestly, the words had hit too close to home. 

“I think you know already, John.” Sherlock tucked his chin slightly.

“Well,” John cleared his throat. “The music was too loud. The driver was erratic-”

“No,” Sherlock said, stepping closer.

_This year's love had better last_

The damn song just wouldn't leave his head. John lifted his chin, steeling himself. 

“Well, then. The song.” John took a deep breath. “There was something about the song.” He locked eyes with Sherlock, unsure if he had it in him to go into the details. If he was wrong...

“The song made me think of you,” Sherlock said. “What we could have been. If I hadn't made the decisions I made.”

John blinked, the world slowing down around him. It felt like he was on the rugby pitch again, on the verge of scoring a try in the final minutes of the game, heart hammering, ball clutched under his arm, the world a blur as opposing players melted away, yielding to the possibility that he might actually succeed at something important.

“You said we're going to need to coordinate,” Sherlock continued. “Years ago. Do you remember?”

“Um...” John scoured his memory. “A little more detail?”

“Lestrade arrested me. I took you hostage. We ran away, wrists handcuffed together. I jumped the railing in the alley-”

“Ah,” John said, the memory lighting up behind his eyes. “God, I'd forgotten about that.”

He remembered the feel of Sherlock's coat tangled in his fingers. How close their faces had been. The fear and desire coursing through his body. Fear, as he realized the extent of Moriarty's capabilities, that he could actually force Lestrade to take Sherlock down. Desire... Well, the desire was always there, but even more so when they did things together that made his blood pump through his veins like it was on fire.

“I didn't really listen,” Sherlock said. “I heard, but I did not comprehend. It was only later that I realized I had thrown away the best opportunity I would ever have to be...more. With someone else.” 

The rain was cold. John's heart ached. He reached up and caught a droplet as it trailed down the side of Sherlock's face, rubbing his thumb against the sharp edge of his cheekbone, then letting his hand drop.

“You know,” he said, his voice unsteady. “You _do_ get a second chance. Or a twentieth chance, if I'm being honest. I could probably go up to a hundred, if I had to.”

Sherlock frowned. “Are you joking?”

“Actually, who am I fooling?” John continued, blinking back the tears in his eyes, or maybe it was just rain. “A thousand chances.”

“You're not joking.”

“A million,” John said, his voice coming out as a whisper. He cleared his throat. “A million chances.”

“I must have had thousands already, at least,” Sherlock said, his brow wrinkling.

“I'll just keep adding on more,” John replied. “You can't stop me. Apparently, nothing can.”

“It's almost as if you're asking me to try.” Sherlock's mouth curved into a small smile.

John chuckled. “You would, too. You bloody madman.”

“John...” Sherlock murmured, lowering his gaze. “I'm in love with you.”

A feeling of unreality washed over John. He stepped closer, but not too much. He didn't want to risk shattering the moment.

“Are you?” He could feel words, buried deeply for so long, rising to the surface easily now. “Well, I love you, too, Sherlock.”

He took a startled breath as Sherlock met his eyes, his gaze ice-blue now, yet full of heat. Sherlock leaned forward, and John met him halfway. He fully intended on making it a quick kiss, with more later, of course, when they were out of the rain. But Sherlock's fingers were digging into his back now, his mouth chasing John's as he tried to pull away. He left a trail of open-mouthed kisses along Sherlock's upper lip, smiling at the small satisfied noises Sherlock couldn't seem to help making, then deepened the kiss until their tongues found each other in a flush of heat and rainwater.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and comments! They make my fandom world go 'round!!!


End file.
